# 11
I haven't played football (a.k.a. soccer) for close to forty minutes, so it's no shock to the system that I'm nursing a punctured ego and gums as I type this entry. The time capsule should house the truth about how effective or otherwise electric eels are in combating open wounds. I dare say they're as preferred as guinea pigs are in treating anorexia. Whatever happened to stitches and rum is beyond my comprehension. I'll grin and pretend to believe in the remedy for now.
Back in the day, when I was paid for my contribution to the final result, balls would fly off my hair and into the back of the net no matter where I was on a paddock. I remember at least three occasions when I was attending to sheep, goats or cows as a football would land on my head and somehow find the back of a goal; pants up or pants down, it mattered not.
Over here things are different. Coconuts don't bounce as impressively off skulls, for one. They don't maintain the same predictible path as a glorious pass along the turf at Wembley or Hindmarsh Stadium, Adelaide; arguably the most lush surface I have ever defecated on, either.
No, the world of football is turned on its head when coconuts, bare feet, barechested teams configured by assumption and sporadic snowfall are the order of the day.
Some of the local kids that flogged me until I agreed to participate sure do have their skills prioritised: maintaining control of the coconut without passing is at the head of importance; distant second is shooting at the goals, although that too has its perks once a shot is made; two palm trees, ripped from the earth and replanted fifteen metres apart, form the basis to the eventual scoreline. Hell, a target that size wouldn't present much of a challenge for what I and other foreign mongrels like me are accustomed to, but when you're besieged by flying knees, heels, elbows and accurately thrown bricks otherwise scattered randomly from unfinished housing from every conceivable direction, the target could be 50,000 metres wide without fearing a shot at the target by yours truly; no matter how spectacular my hair is that day.
Final score: Gorilla Team 2 Sloth Team 3 (1 x OG).
Luckily for all concerned the twenty-four-man substitute rule was enforced and strictly adhered to, meaning that I could get off the dirt in time to receive treatment for my wounds before the tent got excessively busy.
Now, about these eels...
6 comments:
Sounds like the Chelsea youth team overseas training camp.
Where REAL skills can be taught away from the prying eyes of the sporting media.
I spotted the mistake in the second sentence. It should have read: "Where REAL MADRID skills can be taught away from the..."
Football and I don't get along well because I can't fake shins snapping.
I spoke to this Italian mate of mine in a coffee shop once and he keeled over and clutched at his knee, crying a prolonged "Fuck" in the process. When I asked him what the problem was he told me that I had inflicted the worst tackle of his professional coffee drinking career, to which I responded by offering to bid on a signed and laminated nudie poster of Racquel Darrian on eBay for him. Should have seen the slapper bounce to his feet after that.
Wanker.
Ha ha!
yeah, I've got no time for the amatuer dramatics of the beautiful game.
I played last night for the first time in ten years.
My goalkeeping skills were awesome. I conceded 5 goals in the first half, but only 1 in the second, making some life saving er.. saves along the way.
We went on to win 7-6.
Station.
Update: The retarded prick who captained the opposite team is now claiming they beat us 8-7.
2 goals appeared to have been scored overnight.
I shall have to tie him to a stapler and throw chairs at him.
Your mate sounds like he may have spent some time in Germany. I hear they're into backhanded tactics over yonder. Should you procede with the stapler/chair thing, be sure to update me with all injuries sustained. It makes my day to hear about such matters where possible Germans are involved.
Unfortunately, further research indicates he is an englighman, so that means he is descended from Germans, which makes the permanent scarring on his face from swivel chair lacerations that little bit more satisfying to look at when i turn on the dim lighting in the basement.
No, WE have ways of making you talk.
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